


From Riots to Romance

by Jacquianne



Category: North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-01
Updated: 2005-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29109177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacquianne/pseuds/Jacquianne
Summary: After the riot at Marlborough Mills, what if Miss Hale had responded rather differently to her impulse to save Mr Thornton?
Relationships: Margaret Hale & John Thornton
Kudos: 2





	From Riots to Romance

It was the day after the riot. Margaret Hale sat up in bed too quickly, and groaned as she felt the pain on her temple shooting across her head. She automatically raised her hand to the root of the pain and grimaced as her fingers gently brushed the throbbing, swollen area.

Slowly she got up, trying not to anger her sore head with sudden movements and dressed with painstaking deliberateness. She put her hair up in such a way so that little tendrils floated gently over the bruise, masking it slightly. It was the best she could do to hide the mark, the mark which told it was her who was there; it was her, not Mr Thornton’s sister, who had taken the blow for him.

She found that if she moved slowly, and kept her head upright, taking care not to tilt it any way, the pain was confined to her temple. She breakfasted alone, watched steadfastly by the hawkish Dixon, who suspected something was going on in Miss Margaret’s dainty head.

But Margaret kept her eyes demurely downcast, fixed on her food and apparently unaware of being watched. Yet Margaret prayed with every mouthful that Dixon would not notice the tell-tale bruise, that bore her feelings on her temple, marking her for all to see with redness. Red, the colour of passion. The colour of anger. The colour of tempers. The colour of danger. The colour of bravery. The colour of blood. The colour of love.

The colour of love! And here she was, this bright colour painted on her, leaving her nowhere to hide. She felt a blush creep up on her cheeks, reaching all the way to her temple, where the redness mixed and spread further. Dixon saw the young Miss blush, and frowning slightly, started to wonder why. Suddenly Miss Margaret spoke.

“I will go and visit Bessie Higgins today Dixon. Tell Mama I will come and see her again this afternoon.”

“Why yes Miss.” Dixon heard herself replying and hurried to clear away the breakfast tray.

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Margaret wandered leisurely over the hill top towards where the Higginses lived. At least there she would be safe. There, there would be no gossip. She was thankful that the walk towards the shabbier part of town was over a hill, rather than down a road. Who knew who she could meet if she walked on the road?

Bessie was pleased to see her friend, and obviously excited about something. This distressed Margaret, too much excitement in Bessie at this late stage of her illness could not be good. Her cheeks were flamed, her eyes charily bright. She sat up impatiently in bed to talk to Margaret, the words chattering on her lips in her fever to tell Miss Hale.

Margaret tried to calm her, with soft tones of ‘hush’ and stroked her hair away from her face. But Bessie was not to be stilled today. “Miss Margaret please! I must tell you! You always have such news to tell me and now I have some to entertain you with!” She begged.  
“Very well. But calm yourself my dear, you are making me frightened with your agitations!” Margaret spoke lightly, but inside she felt her heart sinking in a sense of foreboding. She had been wrong. Gossip had reached even the slums where the workers lived.

She listened quietly, feigning surprise and astonishment in all the right places, as if she had never heard the story before. She marvelled to herself on how little the story had been distorted. But then, when reality is more exciting than what could be imagined, is there any need for exaggerations?

“They say it was his sister. Lor’ she looked a bit like him! Dark hair – but there’s plenty o’ women wi’ dark hair! Yourself for one Miss Margaret!”

“Bessie-” Margaret tried to interrupt.

“I never thought Miss Fanny would be that brave – from what I’ve heard-”

“Bessie!” Margaret said, more restlessly now.

“What is it Miss?”

“The girl wasn’t his sister!”

“How do you know?”

“I was there Bessie. I was there.” Margaret emphasised her words, trying to make Bessie see.

“But I don’t – there was only the master, Boucher’s men and the girl – how could – I don’t understand!”

Margaret sighed. She unpinned a front coil of hair. “Look Bessie.” She revealed the swollen lump at her temple. She nodded at Bessie’s surprise.

“You mean…? No!” Bessie stared, her eyes widening, pupils dilating with surprise as she reached forward tentatively to touch the bruise, to make sure it wasn’t some mistake. Margaret allowed Bessie’s trembling fingers to trace around the inflamed area.

“Yes Bessie. Not Mr Thornton’s sister. Me. I took the blow for Mr Thornton.” Her own words acknowledged and magnified the deed as she spoke them, as if she was admitting some secret.

“You saved his life!” Bessie exclaimed. “You could have been killed! Did you not think about that Miss Margaret?” Bessie’s small, round mouth gaped open, as she too contemplated the possible reasons for Miss Hale’s act.

Margaret concentrated for a few moments on the slightly yellowing sheets that were draped over Bessie. Her fingers idly followed the creases and contours created with her weight sitting on them. She looked down further, pretending to give greater scrutiny to the thin covers, in reality to hide her thoughts, which spoke so plainly in red on her face. Her mind calmed quickly, the thoughts fading rapidly from her face. She tore her gaze from the bed.

“I think Bessie… I don’t think I did think.” She started slowly. “It just seemed… it seemed… the most natural thing for me to do. I had seen what Mr Thornton had not, from my vantage point from an upstairs window. I did what was needed of me, nothing more.” She smiled briefly, allowing a faint maidenly blush to add to the picture of innocence looking pleadingly at Bessie.

“Oh Miss Hale! You saw the danger, and without even thinking of yourself, you rushed to save the master! You cannot dare to imagine what the rioters must be thinking!”

“Indeed, dear Bessie, I can. I have spent this morning and much of last night experiencing a fevered sleep not unlike the ones you suffer from, as I have pondered my actions yesterday. But it has been hard, this painful throbbing never ceases, and my poor head, as a result, is having great trouble working through all the intricate, detailed thoughts that are all woven in my mind. Certainly, my friend, I have only been able to translate one into any sense – and even that was a revelation to me.” Margaret paused, and patted Bessie’s eager hand that rested, limp, in hers.

“And what was that Miss?” Bessie sat up intently, hanging on Margaret’s every word.

Margaret smiled to see her friend so excited. “Bessie, dear Bessie! Please, you must not get so excited – you will make yourself ill!” She smiled kindly and gently pushed Bessie back against the frowsy pillows, edging closer so they were still able to talk quietly and intimately.

“Miss Margaret – please, what is your revelation? If you just tell me, I am sure the anticipation will be gone and my heart stilled! Now you have worked me into this feverish creature, you must release me from this suspense!” Bessie entreated.

“You have persuaded me Bessie! Very well, my disturbed and tumultuous thoughts have been wandering so much, they have quite tired me out! I have been thinking and thinking over the why of my actions, of what possessed me to act so irrationally and so instantly to save Mr Thornton from harm. After a long night, going round in circles, the thought came to me, concerning what is the why of my thoughtlessness. And I have been forced to admit – look Bessie! – I am a marked woman. Through my actions, he has, unknowingly, claimed me. The bruise is bright red, for all to see; red means love Bessie. Even though he shall not want such a ‘wanton creature’ as how I displayed myself at the riot, I shall be his. My heart has revealed itself to me, and I can now never love any other.” Margaret said, in parts more to herself than her shocked listener.

Both speaker and listener lapsed into silent reverie, contemplating what confidences Margaret had just disclosed. The former sat blushing like a maiden on the first discovery of real love, the listener in silence wondering whether to pity or envy or congratulate Miss Hale on her situation or behaviour. Her manner was certainly most unladylike, especially for a cultured lady as Miss Hale – daughter of a parson! Her behaviour had certainly been outrageous, and she was bonded by duty to Mr Thornton now, but then, it looked as though Miss Hale did not mind being attached in such a way to the master.

It was while she was thinking these thoughts that Margaret smoothed the bed sheets and stood up. “I must go now Bessie dear. I promised Mama I would be back to see her.” She almost whispered, stroking Bessie’s hand and tucking the covers around her.

Bessie nodded and smiled. “Good luck Miss. And thank you Miss. It won’t be long now, but thank you Miss, you have been a true friend.” Bessie smiled, more weakly this time, and felt her eyes shutting, tired out by all the talk and excitement, into the safer, easier, slower world of sleep.

Margaret wished she could drift happily into the world of sleep, just like her friend did. But she was not ill, only love-sick, and sleep would not ease her mind. How she longed for Mr Thornton now! If only she had known how deeply she had fallen for him before – for he most certainly would not want her now, the little hussy she had shown herself to be. At least, thought Margaret, I am not likely to marry another now, since when this gets out there will be none who will have me, and I am free to live my life in peace, to be sad and lonely, pining for him, without any other spoiling it.

It was with these sombre thoughts that she trudged home, trying to keep her mind on her sick mother; it was these thoughts which made her blush at all others, and kept her mind off worrying about Mr Thornton. Presently, she arrived in Crampton at the house, and entered.

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Mr Thornton sat in his office next to the window, looking out over his mill. He had long since given up getting any work done, and he was loathe to even try. His thoughts were of her, of her delicate body against his, her arms, warm around his neck, her pale beauty, white with unconsciousness and a crimson mark like a stain of blush, spoiling her prettiness.

He closed his eyes, to see again that image of her, lying at his feet, the ultimate scene of love. She had saved him, she had saved him in front of many witnesses, confessed herself to him. He sighed in relief. She was his. Whether he wanted her or not, she was his now. The feeling made a surge of power rise up in him, that she depended on him and his reaction. But this was closely followed by guilt and shame, that he had thought to use her compromised situation so dastardly. He had known for some time now, his own feelings towards young Miss Hale, but never had he believed them to be reciprocated. Doubt entered his mind, had he misread the signs of love?

Mr Thornton pondered this question for some time, staring idly out of the window. No, he thought, he had not. There were no signs to misread. Except yesterday. But that was obvious, she had run out on seeing danger, to protect him. It was a simultaneous event, an instant reaction on her part, which had not time to be stopped by the rational thought which allowed her to bar any feelings and treat him with disdain. She had been caught out, and he knew it. He would go and see her, to claim her as his, immediately.

Margaret walked slowly into the room, her head held high, not wanting to show any sign of weakness or compromise which would alert the ever watchful Dixon of her mood. She nodded to that faithful housekeeper that she could go, and she shut the door, and looked directly at Mr Thornton.

He kept her gaze for some time, and Margaret felt forced to admit some humility, and she lowered her head in submission, feeling a blush rising on her cheeks. She heard him speak to her, and her own natural politeness answering. He continued, and Margaret let his words wash over in a stream of joy, not believing what she heard. Mr Thornton, whom she had so recently admitted her love for in a most unmaidenly act, was proposing marriage to her. The time came for her to answer, and she lifted her head, letting a smile break out on her face. She went towards him hesitantly, and in a moment was cradled to him, being kissed so tenderly that her blushes were not spared. She nestled against him for a while, enjoying this new sensation of how natural it should be for her to be there with him.

“You realise I do not merely wish to marry you to save your reputation, don’t you, my Margaret?” John spoke softly, interrupting her thoughts.

Margaret shivered slightly, his voice was as lovely as a bewitching melody. “I know. I know you to be a man who, although you would always be honourable, you would not be here if you didn’t love me. Nor would I, sir, have accepted if I thought there was any doubt of either my own love or yours.”

“I have loved you since I met you Margaret. When did you realise your own feelings?” John asked.

“I have been working through my own thoughts all yesterday since the riot and all last night and this morning. I have not been able to sleep, and every thought has been clouded with thoughts of you. If you had not claimed me then I fear I should have lived a life of loneliness.”

This answer satisfied John fully, and he held her to him and kissed her lips softly, moving his fingers slightly against her temple. “Does it hurt still?” He questioned, when he had kissed her.

Margaret nodded, her arms twined around his neck, her lips still tingling from his kiss. She closed her eyes, and felt him kiss her bruise gently. As she relaxed, she welcomed the attentions, and as his lips moved against her skin she felt the pain going slightly, and gave a little sigh of contentment.

He heard her sigh happily and he kissed her bruise one last time, moving his lips slowly down to claim her mouth again, in an even longer, more passionate kiss, that left Margaret breathless. She lay her head on his shoulder, and was surprised at just how receptive her body was to his touch, the way her skin tingled as she felt his arms encircle her body, wrapping her safely to him. His hands ran slowly up and down her back in a soothing motion which calmed her and excited her all at once. She had never known she could feel like this. When she imagined love she had never imagined it to be something so physical, something so intimate between a man and a woman that she was quite over-awed by his close presence, and it was enough to nestle safely in his arms, to let him administer and initiate all love-making. He had claimed her properly now, both in word and kiss.

Meanwhile his hand had wandered up to her hair, and was caressing it softly and tenderly, in a way she never thought was possible, and was struck dumb in silent wonderment of how intimate this gesture was, how special he was making her feel, encased in him arms, to be looked after and protected by him.

Presently he released her and lifted her head up to face him with a finger. “I must speak with your father.” He smiled and she stepped back slightly, taking hold of his hands.

“Of course.” She smiled slightly, a tremor of nervousness running through her mind. But she dismissed the thought. Father liked Mr Thornton, was very fond of him. Surely that would be enough?

He kissed her hand and left her quickly, shutting the door behind him. Margaret sank into the nearest chair with a feeling of disbelief at what had happened. Disbelief and pleasure. She was his. She loved him, and he had claimed her. Nothing her father could say would change that. She was of age, and if need be, she knew she was prepared to leave and upset her family to be with Mr Thornton.

Oh why is he taking so long? Margaret thought, distress and longing planting the desperate thought in her head. How she longed, no needed, Mr Thornton to return, to kiss her again, claim her once more as his in the knowledge that her father consented. She wrung her hands together in worry.

But this state of mind could not stay with Margaret for long. The certainty of how he had claimed her filled her mind with joy, and even the shadow her father cast over their love could not darken her happiness. She was his, would be his, forever. The emotion made her smile with joy.

The door opened slowly and Margaret stood in anticipation. Mr Thornton entered grimly. Horror went through Margaret and she rushed to him. He held her close for a long time; she was too scared to speak… could her worse fear have happened? Could her father not be persuaded?

“John…” She implored. “Tell me! Tell me! What did he say?” She raised her head from his chest and looked at him with wide, scared eyes.

John held her closely and kissed her upturned mouth. “He said that you are mine. He said yes Margaret! He said yes!” He grinned triumphantly and swung Margaret around in his arms.

“Really? He said yes?” Tears had filled Margaret’s eyes, she felt so happy. She was beyond happy, the thankfulness and joy that was over flowing in her heart, along with the intense love she had for the man who was cuddling her to him possessively was making her dizzy. Dizzy with love.

“Yes! He said yes!” John nearly shouted in happiness and kissed his fiancée’s hair. “Margaret, my Margaret, we are to be married.”

Margaret lifted her head, her smiles and pleasure being amplified by her blushes. Shyly she twined her arms around him and leaned towards him. For the first time, Margaret Hale kissed John Thornton. She kissed him so sweetly that John was taken aback by her innocent, timid confession of love.

He realised quickly that that kiss was the first time she had ever kissed him. He had kissed her so many times that afternoon, but this was the first, sweet time she had initiated any love-making. She had, in that soft kiss, shown him how much she loved him. She had given herself to him. Her kiss showed such love, such trusting surrender to him that it left him speechless.

John felt her settle back into him, leaning against him, trusting him. He let his arms wrap themselves around her soft body, cradling her once again to him, letting her know that he knew how important, how significant her kiss was, and reassuring her with love that he understood her perfectly.

She was finally his, in every way. Their happiness was complete.

THE END.


End file.
